


Like A Lover Should

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Letters, Post-Season/Series 03, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Write 10 lines, each starting with the words, I hope...</p><p>Dying Sherlock writes John one final letter.</p><p>"People write things in letters they would never say in person." -Alice Steinbach</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Lover Should

_Dear John,_

_I hope that you’re not too upset about my leaving. This is something I had to do, for the betterment of all of us. Mycroft has told me about your daughter. Two months old, and she seems very smart. You should be very happy._

_I hope you’re not upset that I just told you how you should feel. You never liked that. You felt so much, John. You were the heart to my head. When people were angry, you relaxed them. When people were hurting, you cared for them. You were their connection back to the real, feeling world._

_I hope your daughter grows up to become smarter, and stronger, healthy and happy. She deserves it all. So do you, John. You don’t deserve to go through the struggles I brought to your life. You don’t deserve pain, suffering, or hurt. I just wanted to let you know that I am not hurting physically, John. I’m safe. I’ll be back in three months._

_I hope you won’t get angry with yourself, John, but I’m dying. The pills should be done in two hours. I can feel my mental processes slowly slowing down. I feel like I’m not living in this world. I’m living in a brighter one with sharp colours and searing hearts._

_I hope you could see that I loved you, and I still do. I still love you. When I first saw you, John, I knew you were my portal. You were my link back to everything. With you, I was trusted to go on other cases because only you could handle me. Mrs. Hudson and I had something to talk about. You helped me see what Molly needed to hear and coached me through the rooftop._

_I hope you forgive me for the fall. I told you so many times that it was just for you. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson matter too, but you matter the most. Your heart was like a hand that I grasped onto. You pulled me through the deserts of Iraq, the snowy mountains of Rwanda, even down the aisles of Tesco, like a mother leading her child through thick crowds._

_I hope you get over everything that happened. Some of it was good. There were wonderful cases, dozens of comments on your blog entries, unopened emails with tantalizing prepositions inside. There were flashing cameras and dodging photographers. When we left the flat, we had to bat them off with our hands. I know you pretended to hate it, but a little piece of you didn’t mind, because who could mind when we had the adventure?_

_I hope you can understand the depth of my love for you. My real death was seeing you slipping a ring on someone else’s finger._

_I hope you live the normal life you’ve always dreamed of, away from any criminal traces or misguided intentions. I want you to take your daughter to plays and I want you and Mary to have dates every Saturday night. I want you to be proud of the suburban life you are able to lead. I want you to be proud of yourself and I want you to remember that I am proud of you._

_I hope you can read this part of the letter, where I tell you the truth. John, I did not love you like a brother or a friend. I loved you like a lover should. I came back for you. I fought for you. I wanted you. It was only ever you. There was never anyone else._

_And now, there will never be anyone else. Goodbye, John._

_Sherlock_

* * *

 

John sat the letter down in front of him. The last letter, the only letter. Agitated thoughts were whirring through his head.

He looked back at the parchment, slightly damp from it being contained in the wet envelope. He vaguely wondered how long it took for Mycroft to find the letter, how he decided to actually give it to John. Christ, did he pluck the letter from Sherlock’s cold, dead hands?

Alexandra, his now three-month-old daughter, cried from the nursery. Sighing, he smoothed his left hand over the letter. He couldn’t read it for the fourth time.

His decision was quick and hurried as he folded it in half and ripped it into three pieces, before dropping them in the bin and standing up to find his daughter.

**  
**  



End file.
